


We Build Tomorrow on the Graces of Today

by ShiDreamin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drama & Romance, Engagement, M/M, Political Alliances, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-24 13:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30072894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiDreamin/pseuds/ShiDreamin
Summary: "Shall we eat?” Even in Almyran, the phrase was familiar. Hands reached forward at once, grabbing bread, smearing cheese, fingers snapping at fruits and jams. Finally, the face turned, the veil slipping to their shoulders.Emerald eyes.“Claude?”He was Khalid when he met Dimitri again.Nearly two years after the end of Fodlan's war, Dimitri receives a letter asking him to travel to Almyra to meet the future King. He doesn't expect to find Claude, and he certainly doesn't expect to find himself engaged to Claude. It's all for the sake of bettering their nations... isn't it?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 17
Kudos: 32
Collections: Dimiclaude Big Bang 2020





	1. Dawn of a New Day

Sea salt.

If one were to ask Dimitri to capture the essence of Almyra in one scent, it would have to be sea salt. He had been expecting perhaps a long expanse of desert land, as General Holst described overseeing the border between the two nations, or perhaps something like the icy glaciers turned rolling fields of Duscar, before they were burnt to the ground. He had never been to Dagda, nor Sreng, though he remembers the skinny green ivy strands Sylvain had brought back: flowers from abroad.

The flowers in Almyra climb along glass panels, refusing to die under the beating sun, the salty water that splashes at the edge of the capital’s bright dome walls. The chatter of her citizens is unavoidable, cries of joy and worried murmurs combining to one. The children who usually run in the neighborhood yelling regardless of their parent’s scolding are quiet now, passive.

All stand as one under the smell of the sea, eyes glues to the red tapestry that hands from the castle’s wall.

The king had stood there only minutes before, welcoming his people, from within the Almyran empire to beyond. There are inventions and magic here that Dimitri could not have dared to dream about back in Faerghus territory; Dagdans who have sailed past the roaring oceans with their broad winged ships and their star maps, coming to see what new era their trading partner will usher in. There are few Brigid travelers in the crowd, many of whom wear the emblem of Her Royal Highness around their neck, representing their queen who will descend for the final ceremony, not the first.

It is hard not to flinch when he had come upon a Duscur family: a father ushering his two children to stop fidgeting under the beating sun. One had stared at Dimitri from beneath their bangs, tracking this pale skinned stranger, and he had swallowed and forced his steps steady as he stomped away.

They are few and far between. Years gone by, and the weight of a guilty helm on his shoulder refuses to fade.

There is a long, drawn out horn bellowing in the air. The crowd shifts as one, craning their necks for a better look at the royal orchestra, impossible as it is to see into the castle walls. The banner flutters in a breeze picked up from the sea, and Dimitri finds his breath catching as the Queen of Almyra steps forward.

His inhale tastes like salt.

The Queen has a scroll in her hand, held open to her by one of the many servants of the royal family. Try as he might, Dimitri cannot distinguish the kneeling man—perhaps not a person he recognizes. It would not matter much for him to congratulate the chosen helper in the long run, but years of solitude in a frozen castle has made him humble. Grateful. For the unnamed people who keep the country running.

The Queen taps the balcony overseeing her peoples, and at once, the music stills, and with it the nature, the sea, wyvern wings flapping in the air. A sprawling empire well worth three times the size of Fodlan freezes with baited breath at the command of one woman.

He cannot tell from this far down, but Dimitri thinks she smiles.

“Hello,” she says, calm, her voice resonating through the air with the aid of Almyra’s academic scholars, researchers and mages alike who support the throne. “Thank you all for coming.”

Dimitri raises his hand to clap, uncertain, but besides a few soft attempts no one partakes in the movement. The Almyrans, and they are all Almyrans, do not break their glance even for a second.

It is, after all, the decision of their future.

“The candidates for consideration to inherit the throne are as follows.”

Silence. Porcelain silence, on the cusp of the desk in the breaking dawn, tipping over at the slightest provocation.

Dimitri inhales.

“Camila.”

He exhales.

The skies themselves seem to part for Almyra’s great pirate, her wyvern long and monstrous, snout capable of crushing three men in its jaws. The Dagdans whoop and stomp in unison, waving, laughing, as the woman storms out of the castle walls, laughing freely. Victoriously. As though the throne is already in her grasp.

Her wyvern roars, splitting the clouds, snapping its jaws at their people. It’s armor, red, ruby red, jingles and sounds with ever flap of its wings.

The same red on the bangle of the man in front of Dimitri. To his left, to his right.

Red. Ruby red.

Raised high in the air, dangling from the wrists of men and women and children from around the empire, and beyond its territorial lines.

Those who support her wearing the helm of Almyra over her shoulders.

In Faerghus, there was a ceremony for the passing of the crowns. Rodrigue had delighted in saying that just as it was every boy’s dream to be knighted at the seat of his king, it was every prince’s dream to kneel down in that same position, on the rolling blue carpet with their head tilted downward, staring at the Blaiddlyd crest engraved onto the floor.

He had done it for Ingrid. For Felix, then Sylvain. Wearing that blue fur cape with the mark of his father and the fathers before him, as he tapped Areadbhar on their shoulders and proclaimed them knights.

His father had not done the same for him. They had not known that he would not live to see Dimitri wear his crown.

The king of Almyra passes no crowns, neither the queen.

It is only the calling day, after all.

“Faheema.”

A young girl who swings her sword through the air, white lace ribbons drifting behind her wyvern. There is a murmur amongst the people, raising their hands to the air. Marble.

Candidate after candidate leave the castle walls, bringing with them rainbow stones and the raised fists of their supporters. Pink sapphires and black pearls, jade bracelets and ivory stone. Their wyverns snap and roar as they join each other in the air, candidate facing candidate, dressed to the nines for a coronation yet to come.

Not a single person emerges with the emeralds Dimitri wears, hidden under his sleeve.

The man holding the scroll stands, rolling it upward and leaving their overlooking pier. Sticky silence descends upon them, cautious, confused, as the royal candidates linger in the air, their wyvern wings a symphony against the porcelain silence that descends once again.

The queen of Almyra walks forward until she’s visible, the ends of her green and white dress sweeping between the balcony rails, placing her hand upon it. Dimitri squints at her, her face, her hands. Raising her left one up, until her sleeve slips down, revealing the stars and emeralds.

The red banner parts once more, a familiar roar ascending as white, crystalline, shoots out from beneath it. This wyvern wears no colors, nor armor, nor streamers. She carries with her none of the decorations the other wyverns and riders have adorned themselves with—but why would she?

There is no mistaking the wyvern who wears moonlight as a skin.

There are those who grumble and mutter, and those who gasp and plead. An upstart, and an upset, and a ray of hope despite them all. Dimitri raises his hand, feeling the weight of cold stares against his back. So be it.

The queen refuses to lower her wrist as she speaks, their emeralds matching the man who wears it on his ear, the coming of a new age.

“Khalid.”

Claude looks upon his people, and, perhaps nothing more than a glare from the sun, appears to raise his hand. Smiles atop this throne made of ivory.

A king coming home.

-

_Your honorable Great Archbishop,_

_It is my upmost honor to congratulate you for ascending the throne of Almyra’s great neighbor, Fodlan. I have heard long tales of your fortitude, your wit, and your glory in the art of combat. It is with a warm heart that I have sent this letter your way, hoping it will be received in good spirits._

_For far too long, Almyra and Fodlan have been in conflict. We weep openly for the fall of our brave men and women who fight for our nation, just as I am sure your Goddess cries for your own warriors who never return home. I have heard rather callous rumors about the state of Fodlan in post war times—would it be too presumptuous for me to assert that Fodlan will not be able to survive for long without proper aid? I am certain that the conflicts within your nation have hurt your people greatly, and I cannot imagine too many would be willing to lend a hand in aid to a dying empire._

_But I ask you, what if Fodlan could live?_

_Recently, your people delivered Almyra a blessing beyond our words. There is hope for peace once again in our nation due to your actions, and the destruction of impurities in our royal bloodline. Many whom have thought Fodlan a coward’s land understands now that your society has higher standards than we originally understood. We want to thank you for your work in helping Almyra secure a brighter future, just as I’m certain you had sought for in your war._

_My son will soon succeed the Almyran throne. With his aid, we will be able to bestow upon Fodlan the help it needs. All I ask in exchange is a simple request: we cannot give our resources to a nation without reason, as I am certain you understand. Please take some time in your busy schedule to arrive to Almyra during the coming of Spring. All I ask is a matter of days to help settle the future of our nation’s potential union._

_I have left you a present with this letter. It will grant you free entrance to Almyra, as well as aid wherever you shall need it. Its power is not to be minimized. Think of it as a favor between me and you, yes?_

_I look forward to seeing you in the flesh, holy Archbishop._

The letter had come in a square envelope made of spun threads rather than paper, shimmering under the light. Thin reedy rope bound it to a blue box painted with red flowers, and inside that, a pin shaped like Thoron in action, its angry thunderous thorns spiking outward.

Byleth held it in their hand, turning it from side to side. Hanneman had already inspected the package in full, but there was not a trace of magic within it. No curse nor poison to behead their nation.

Just the wary suspicion of a package from Almyra.

“It’s not signed.”

Dimitri sighed, pressing the letter flat once again. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the thunder symbol stamped on its wax seal even more so. There was not a single noble family in Fodlan who used such a design.

It’s suspicious and credible all at once.

“Why address it to you, Archbishop? If they wanted a union between nations…” Dimitri’s voice fell away as he read the letter again. Regardless of how many times his eyes skimmed, nor whether he placed it over fire, or magic enhanced light, the words did not change. It’s but a letter, enclosed in secret, for the Archbishop and the Archbishop only.

Perhaps they did not know that the Archbishop was not Fodlan’s king.

“Maybe they made a mistake.”

Byleth had descended from their chamber with confidence, giving Dimitri the letter and box. They said it was his, wrongly sent, but there was no mistaking the proper addresses in the package. It was sent for their Archbishop. It was sent for Byleth.

From who?

“But their Fodlan is so well written,” he hesitated, letting Byleth take the paper from his hand. “Perhaps they didn’t intend on me reading it?”

“Perhaps,” Byleth said, folding it in half, “that’s why I gave it to you.”

The words lingered in the air. Rebellion. Assassination. Anarchy.

Crismon flowers that continued to bloom where Edelgard once fell, emerging from her blood and her peoples. A century’s worth of infighting forced alive again when the war came to a hasty end.

For the various mistakes in the letter, they were right about at least one thing:

Fodlan was dying. _Fast_.

War was kind to no one, least those who lose. Unfortunately, when the winner and loser were one and the same, the losses were felt by all. Farming grounds burnt to a crisp, the soil unusable for winters to come; families without fathers or brothers, without daughters or sons, waiting for a normalcy that lay beyond the reachable horizon.

A castle that grew emptier with every coming moon, as the army that once unified Fodlan found themselves drifting away. Not just to the borders of their unified land, but beyond.

To happier nations.

Tensions between Fodlan and their neighbors did not lessen after the war, but escalated instead. A nation weeping from internal cancers was a nation weak, and those who had been wrongly razed by Fodlan’s fury had risen up again to reclaim their lands. Petra had returned to Brigid with an illuminating smile Dimitri had never seen, every bit the queen he knew that she could be. Dedue had gone with Dimitri to the borders that were once Duscur, and they had planted a flower garden by the river’s bend. He had offered to stay, those moons ago, but Dedue had told him to go. That there were places that needed him more.

That Fodlan would shatter without a leader at the helm.

Dimitri had not yet known how correct Dedue would be.

Peace had been fleeting. The war was over, the damning Empire lost, the rebelling Alliance returned to the Kingdom. What happiness there was in the beginning months was felt in full—the marriage of the Archbishop with their favorite knight, Sylvain. Dimitri had laughed when Felix was roped into singing at his own ceremony, dressed in burnt oranges and gold, singing off note with his arms around Annette glowing in his blue cape. When Lysithea had emerged anew, the beginnings of purple roots peeking out from beneath her white locks, Cyril had proposed on the spot. A wedding of pink and blue ribbons and jewels, glistening in the fading sun, as Hilda and Marianne exchanged rings.

Happy days.

“The Almyran border hasn’t experience activity in months. Why now?” Byleth shrugged at the question, relaxed in their composure, tucking the letter away. The pin rested in their hand still, until finally, they pulled forward their collar. Added the thunderous symbol to their chest.

“Who knows,” Byleth said, as easy as the passing wind. They turned to Dimitri, a quirk to their lips. Rattled the empty box just once.

“Want to find out?”

-

Golden lace. Flowers. A crown made of golden stars, welded together to hide until that braid. Familiar, in a way that stung to the back of Dimitri’s throat.

He had never realized how familiar Almyran clothing was until he saw the royal children together, a sea of daggers cloaked as presents. They wore threads woven from the sky as though they had pulled the stars from above them, smiling perfectly. Comfortable in their indulgence.

The door clicked shut. Byleth nodded at the entrance, twisting the lock in place. No one enters, no one leaves.

Emerald eyes. Ones that he could never forget.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

-

_To whom it may concern,_

_The Archbishop would like to extend their gratitude for your kind invitation. Unfortunately, the Almyran tongue is not their strong suit, and as such, they worry they will not be able to travel far alone. We are lucky enough, however, to have a few close friends to the Archbishop assist them in their journey to meet you. Diplomats for our coming period of collaboration, of course._

_We have noticed that there may have been an error in your original address to us. While the Archbishop is excited to foster a relationship between Fodlan and her neighbors, it will be up to our Grand King, the Son of Blaiddyd, Dimitri Alexandre, who will make such judgements. Of course, we wish not to burden our gracious host with multiple visits. Our king will travel with our Archbishop as one party._

_I have no doubt that your intentions are for the best between our two countries. As such, I am happy to say that Fodlan will be able to persist without her named King and Archbishop for some moons. After all, we have the Grand Orator, the Knights of Seiros, and those who serve the King closely. Including the Archbishop’s beloved._

_I am sure there will be no troubles at our border at their absence, correct?_

-

There were protests against the trip, of course. It was expected—the two faces of Fodlan leaving together to visit a neighbor once shrouded by heavy border conflicts leading to what seemed to be generations of racial bias could not have come at a worse time.

Regardless, there was no written precedence for such an affair before. Almyra, despite its multiple conquering attempts, had never _formally_ addressed Fodlan in any way. Their soldiers who stumbled upon and over the Fodlan border never stuck around for long, many laughing away after the slaughter. Their skirmishes with Fodlan were petty at best, and vicious at worst.

But they had wealth. Enough so that their mysterious benefactor, whose son was soon to hold the title of King, could offer repairs for nothing more than a diplomatic visit. It was suspicious. It was too suspicious.

Fodlan was fractured even under one name, the moons after the war unkind. Hope slipped away as quickly as it had come, reality crashing down upon them when they reviewed the damage. A third of the population slaughtered in war was nothing when the threat loomed overhead every second, families and soldiers cut down by bandits if not by the Empire’s own hands. In peace, however, that missing third person was felt more strongly than ever.

It was only right to allow his friends to return to their territories and repair what little of their homes was left. Time forced their distance to grow once more, and besides Seteth, Dimitri had thought he and Byleth would emerge relatively unscathed from any scolding.

Perhaps Dimitri had underestimated the bonds of his friendships. He only wished it wasn’t now that they decided to present themselves again.

“Excuse me? Almyra? _Both of you_?”

Seteth’s voice rung in the council room, his hands curled above the table even as Flayn had a hand on his sleeve, tugging. He shook his head, sighing, refusing to meet either of their gazes.

“I’m sorry,” Seteth said, sagging back into his chair. “I just—I don’t find this very wise.”

“They’re insane. How are you only realizing this now?”

“ _Sweetie_.”

Felix grunted, though he takes Annette’s hand in apology. His glare, however, refused to lessen as he continued to scowl at Dimitri. They had come in just last night, running into the halls with scathing warnings on their tongue.

What they hadn’t expected was the rest of the Blue Lions in one space again, for the first time since the war.

To be fair, Dimitri hadn’t known expected his chambers to be full once again, either.

“Fe’s not wrong. This is crazy even for you guys.” Sylvain shrugged with his words, at odds with the way he sat in Byleth’s lap. The twitch of Byleth’s lips betrayed them, along with the way their arms tucked Sylvain carefully closer.

“Disgusting,” Felix huffed, wincing as Annette pinches his arm. Dimitri cannot help his shared glance with Ingrid. There were many couples who struggle to survive a long-distance relationship, but Sylvain and Byleth had somehow thrived with the territory. Dimitri could think of few times Byleth looked happier than when Sylvain would return from Faerghus in a winter cloak and snow coated hair, kissing their husband before whisking him to the baths.

It was… sweet. Absurdly sweet. Enough so that even Seteth grimaces at their flirting.

“Are we sure the letter is real? This timing is… convenient,” Ingrid frowned, parsing through the letter once again. They’ve laid out the pin, the letter, and the packaging in the center of the table for free inspection, and though everyone has picked it up once not a single person had detected any sign of treachery.

“I couldn’t find anything. I don’t know who could have done this but—if it is a trap, I don’t think any of us can tell.” Silence fell over the room at Ashe’s words. Even Byleth had held out on the possibility, and they had all watched in silence when his friend had worked at the box, testing the corners, the wrapping, and then the pin itself. Not a single hint.

“I trust Ashe,” Dedue intercepted, glancing to Dimitri hurriedly. “Even so, Ingrid is correct. I feel that it would be best to proceed with caution.”

“Exactly. Only a fool would fall for something this basic.”

“Well,” Mercedes cut off Felix with a smile, leaning forward. “It sounds exciting, doesn’t it? It would be nice to see a coronation in person.”

“Mercie is right! Maybe we could become great friends!” Annette beamed, even as her finger pinches Felix’s elbow not unkindly. His kept his gaze averted, a slight pout forming at his lips as his wife pointedly ignored his words. “We could all benefit from a new ally, right professor?”

“Well?” Sylvain prompted, grinning as Byleth leans in to his words. “You’ve been pretty quiet, Byleth. What’s up?”

“I’ve always quiet,” Byleth teased, indulgent, before schooling their expression once more as they straightened, looking over the table. Dimitri could hardly hide a quirk to his lips; nearing seven years after first being put under Byleth’s tutelage, and the Blue Lions were still as eager students as the very first dawn when they had walked through the door. Byleth cleared their throat, purposeful, eyes roaming the room. From Ingrid to Mercedes, from Seteth to Dimitri.

“Fodlan doesn’t have many friends.” Blunt as always. Seteth’s eyes fell, squeezing his fist. “This opportunity, as Ingrid said, is too good to be true. It’s dangerous, and could plunge us into another war. It’s a trap too obvious for us to fall for it.”

Felix hummed, nodding, though his fingers tighten around Annette, pulling her close. Ingrid shuffled in her chair, straightening.

Dimitri lied in wait.

“That’s why we won’t fall for it. We’re going in armed and ready. And we’ll be bringing friends.”

That, if nothing else, gets heated attention from everyone at the table. Friends. More than one, yes, but certainly not their class. They would hardly make it through the gate, a king with his closest knights, armed to the nines.

“Seteth.” The man flinched, his eyes widening. Byleth shook their head before the words even leave his mouth. “I trust you to protect Fodlan in our absence.”

“O-of course, but Byleth I—”

“Ingrid. Felix.” The two met Byleth’s gaze squarely. “If you can spare a moment from your territories, it would benefit all of Fodlan. Annette,” she swallowed, nodding slowly, “do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Annette exhaled, her gaze burning.

“I want you and Ashe to take care of Faerghus.” They flinched, eyes wide as they meet each other across the table. “Mercedes, I want you here. No one takes care of business like you.” She smiled at the words.

“Dedue.” Byleth paused, scratching their head before sighing. “Go back to Duscur.”

What?

“Professor—”

“Dimitri,” Byleth cut in with a frown. It’s impossible not to flinch, even knowing that most would consider the title of king above archbishop. “It’s Dedue’s choice.” He swallowed, nodding hastily, tearing his eyes back to Dedue. His friend met his gaze with an incline of his head. As though they were still young boys, holding onto only each other after the fire, when Dedue dared not speak and Dimitri could not remember how.

“It is,” Dimitri sighed, finding a smile on his face. “Go ahead, friend.”

“We will need what advantages we can get. Being allies with Duscur’s diplomatic representative is something we could use, should we need it.” The silent _escape route_ goes unsaid.

“It would be my honor.” Dedue’s shoulders squared, and he was, now and forever, still the same man Dimitri remembered in that cell. A protector.

“Then we’re done here. I have a few more people I need to contact before we leave, is that alright?”

“Contact? Who?”

“Wait, we’re not done here—”

“Byleth, _please_ , a discussion about the church?”

“By, you missed me.”

The sound of Byleth’s chair scraping against the floor is enough to quiet their concerns once again. Their gaze swept over them, pausing when it finally landed on Sylvain.

“The meeting is over,” Byleth commanded, their voice ringing even in their small chamber. They softened immediately as their hands ran over Sylvain’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I did miss you. But not just now.”

“Yeah? You have plans for me?”

“I do. Many, many plans.”

Felix grimaced, pretending to retch even as Annette elbowed him. Ingrid met his gaze, slicing a finger across her neck. Ashe laughed silently, walking out with Mercedes and Dedue, the latter glancing over to Dimitri.

“Let’s go,” Dimitri smiled, glancing over to the lovebirds once more. He would have never imagined all those years ago that this happiness, watching his friends in love, would be possible in his life. It made him hopeful, and silly, walking into such obvious traps.

Perhaps if he were lucky, the future Almyran king would look kindly upon him.

-

_Dearest Saint,_

_Our letter of good will was no mistake. If there are plans for skirmish at our borders, it is of no intent or rule of mine. You see, my son has yet to come into the power to rule Almyra, but we will secure it soon. I say perhaps even within a half year. Fodlan has given us a great boon by removing our greatest hindrance._

_A lifelong friendship between Fodlan and Almyra awaits. I drink to you, Saint._

_We do not need the King. Only the Archbishop._


	2. Two Parallel Lines

_Meet me in my room for tea, twenty to twelve. You and Teach. Don’t be late._

An unexpected benefit of being Claude’s neighbor in Garreg Mach was the occasional peek into his room. Dimitri was no fan of gossip, nor was he particularly nosey, but there was something tantalizing about the way Claude rarely left his door ajar, and when it was, the sliver of warm light into the hallway always invited Dimitri to take a closer step. He never made it far, always interrupted by Claude’s careful wave and smile, stepping between him and the door, but he remembered every instance vividly.

Messy.

It was always messy.

“Your room is nice,” Dimitri spoke, the silence hanging between them fragile. Claude’s room in Almyra was more than large enough to take up a branch of a minor noble’s manor, lined with bookshelves on one end and tapestries hanging over lounges on the other. Claude nodded; it was such a miniscule thing, and yet Dimitri found himself distracted once more by the golden lace. The flowers. The crown made of golden stars, welded together to hide under his braid.

The Claude he once knew would notice his stare and wink, teasing.

This one didn’t bother, slipping the crown from his hair and setting it onto the table with a clink. He turned to Dimitri, past him, at the sound of the lock twisting into place. Claude poured their tea, Almyran Pine, served alongside tall plates of buttered rolls and fried green squares.

Byleth had only raised their cup when Claude spoke .

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“We were invited,” Byleth replied, taking a long sip. The steam curled around them, sweet, beckoning, not too hot despite the sun’s rays that spilled into the room.

“Yes,” Claude nodded, “but it was a trap.”

“Is there something wrong? Are you in danger?” It was difficult to remove the thoughts and warnings from before they left Fodlan from ringing in Dimitri’s head. It was so easy to focus on themselves, on assassination attempts, on rebels from the now demolished Empire.

It was hard to focus on anything but Claude when he sat right in front of them, alive and well.

“I’m fine, Dimitri.” There was amusement in that voice, a bygone memory of Claude laughing at him when they were younger, more foolish, and Dimitri had not yet known the limits of his strength. Claude had been so fragile then, it was hard to squash his fretting after every practice match.

“Evidently.” Byleth quirked a brow as they spoke, pouring a new cup. “Fine enough to not reach out to us.”

“Miss me that bad, Teach?” Claude chuckled, fading into a sigh. “It’s been busy. I’ve been busy, and I’ve heard many things about Fodlan. You two have had quite an upstart to your year.” His brows furrowed as he frowned, folding his hands together. “It was a foolish decision to come in the first place.”

Claude’s right. Their actions rung out as impatient and upsetting to noble and commoner alike, and Dimitri swallowed lest he say something unkind. What was there to be said? Even if they were friends—were they, after moons of quiet? Even Dedue and Sylvain had been kept blind from the worst of Fodlan’s future reserves, though he was certain both had somehow pieced together the truth despite his and Byleth’s attempts.

This was Claude. And if there was anyone so clever as to pick apart the truth of Fodlan even without stepping a foot back into the country, it would be him.

“We are taking a gambit. You are right—it was a foolish decision. But we’ve come, and we’ve found you, haven’t we?” Dimitri’s voice tilted hopeful, his fingers clenched tight. They had a goal here, even if it had been admittedly thrown to the side since Claude’s reappearance into their lives. “We intend to meet with the future king.”

“Oh?” Claude widened his eyes in mock surprise before narrowing them to slits. “The future king?”

“Judith,” Byleth interrupted, “is searching for him. She knows the queen of Almyra, apparently.” There’s a gap there, knowing, that Byleth doesn’t share. Dimitri and Claude stared at them in unison, waiting, even though their professor has no intention of revealing their secrets to the class.

“And?” Claude eventually prompted. Dimitri sighed, digging into his robes and unfurling the letter and box, packaged as it was when it first arrived sans pin. Claude took it in no hurry, recognition sparking at the sight.

“The queen wrote us a letter. She said her son will soon rise to the throne, and he will support peace between our countries.”

“The queen, huh?” Claude mumbled, setting the box aside to read the letter. He skimmed it before muttering something rotten, opening the box. “This had an ensigma, didn’t it?”

“It didn’t.”

Claude snorted at Byleth’s words, raising a brow. Dimitri forced his lips shut, glancing between the two hurriedly.

“I remember you being a better liar,” Claude laughed, mocking, folding the box back up. “I’ll give this information to you for free, since I owe you a favor, Teach.”

“This letter came from a queen, in Fodlan terms. Not the queen, but a queen.”

“What?”

Claude laughed again at Dimitri’s words, though he was a tad pleased to hear it was softer, tinged with genuine warmth. Claude shook his head, chuckling slowing. At ease as he glanced to Byleth, pointing at Dimitri.

“This is the man you chose. Your decision, your consequences.” That’s… not incorrect, though Dimitri cannot help that he found himself the slightest bit offended when Byleth joined Claude in chuckling. He smiled regardless, letting their voices wash over him.

He hadn’t realized how comfortable he had become with loneliness until the letter arrived.

“In Fodlan, there are noble men who date multiple women, right? But usually only one wife—the others are all in a relationship, but they’re not married. So there’s only one wife, and a lot of side women, and the wife is always number one, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“In Almyra, the king can take on more than one wife. Saba, the person who sent you this,” Claude raised the letter, dangling it from two pinched fingers as though dirty, “is one of the king’s wives. But she’s not the wife. She’s like a side woman, except treated a lot less horribly, and her kids have a chance at a future.”

There was a lot to unfold in Claude’s words, though the first had to be about the woman Judith was supposedly meeting. Though Dimitri had seldom heard about Almyra, and what he did always unkind, marriage in the royal family was one of the topics he had never even thought to explore before.

“The woman Judith is meeting, then, is she…?” It was easier to let the question dangle in the air, words unspoken. The thought of calling Judith’s friend a “side queen” or “side woman” weighed heavy on his tongue. It was easier to linger uncomfortably instead.

Luckily, Claude clucked his tongue and cut off the silence before long.

“No, Judith’s pretty lucky. She’s meeting the queen. The big head queen. They’re probably in a shouting match right now.” Claude grinned, almost fond, as though knowing both women. Perhaps he did; after all, Hilda suspected he lived in Almyra for a great part of his childhood. It wouldn’t be unusual for Almyran citizens to think fondly of their queen.

“Does she not have any children?” Byleth’s words returned them to the content of the letter. A child born from an unsightly “side” relationship would be named a bastard and treated miserably in Fodlan—even if Claude claimed that they would experience a better life here, Dimitri could hardly imagine the title of king would fall so easily into their lap.

Neither did Claude, evidently, by the tired twitch of his lips.

“She does,” he eventually spoke, taking long sips of his tea between words. “The crown prince, you could say. Usually the main child of the queen and king is expected to inherit the throne but… not this year.”

“Why?” Fire and screams flickered past Dimitri, memories forced away as quickly as they appear. “Why now?” 

“He messed up. That’s all. Even if he didn’t, the throne isn’t guaranteed. Almyra isn’t like Fodlan—it’s partly a meritocracy. Everyone has a shot at being emperor. Everyone.”

“Even the bastard child of a side queen?” Byleth stated, a question as much as a statement. Claude nodded, weary.

“Even him.” Claude set the letter back onto the table once more, pinning it in place with the box it had come with. “I wouldn’t bet on him, though. It’s better for you two to go before anything messy happens—and take Hilda and Judith with you, please?”

It was a dismissal clearer than anything Claude would have hinted at in the past. Dimitri opened his mouth, but try as he might, the words lodged in his throat. Why must they leave so soon? He had thought creating bridges between Fodlan and Almyra would be exactly what Claude wished for. Wasn’t Claude happy to see them?

Wasn’t Claude happy to see him?

“We’ll consider it,” Byleth responded, moons of diplomacy and understanding settling onto their shoulders once more. They stood first, drawing back Dimitri’s chair before he could tell them off, smiling softly. “It is good to see you Claude. I was worried.”

“You don’t show it,” Claude muttered, though he quirks his lips. “You really got to stop showing up like this. It’s important for me to show my good side, you know?”

“Write us.” With that, Byleth shifted the door’s lock, the sound of it clicking open breaking their words. “Stay safe, Claude.”

“You too.”

The door closed behind them, with only the echo of Dimitri’s last words in his head as Byleth folded up the letter, tucking it in their robes.

Years of silence. Of mystery. Of moving on because Fodlan had needed a king, and Dimitri had needed a purpose. He had taken on the title, the crown, the robes. The solitude. Accepting that Fodlan’s fate was in his hands, and then accepting that he would fail his nation.

The letter. The pin.

Claude.

Why? Why now?

-

Holst Goneril could be no one else but Hilda’s brother—pink hair pulled by with black heart pins, pink armor, and an axe that could and had ended battles single-handedly. A respected man on all fronts and well-deserved for his work on keeping Fodlan safe.

Dimitri prayed for him to retire soon enough.

The carriage ride to Almyra was tense, not least because of their chosen companions. Byleth had said that they would be leaving Fodlan with a full team of allies—Seteth had written letters on that assumption, passed back and forth between him and their Almyran coordinator, making it clear that Fodlan’s Archbishop and King would not fall alone.

His words were in good faith, acting on part of Fodlan’s rulers.

Never would Dimitri call Seteth gullible, not least because it hadn’t just been him who fell for Byleth’s ruse, but them all.

“I can’t believe,” Hilda huffed, “that you were going to leave just like that! What would poor Seteth think?”

Seteth probably didn’t know anything just yet. Dimitri was both very pleased that he would be in Almyra for the discovery and also horrified that he would have to return to Fodlan for the lecture.

“He’ll be fine. I trust him and Sylvain to care for Fodlan.”

“Not what I meant. I can’t believe you didn’t bring Sylvain with you. He must be pissed.” She was right. When Byleth had refused to share Sylvain’s role in their departure, most had simply assumed Byleth would be bringing their husband along. After all, the letter had asked for the Archbishop, and Sylvain, though not holding the name for himself, was present for most public affairs in regards to the church. Most of the year they were in separate territories, working separately for Fodlan’s future, but there had never been any doubt that when Sylvain needed help, Byleth would go.

No one had expected Sylvain would be left behind.

No one but Byleth.

“He will be fine. I trust him,” Byleth responded, soothed by burning words past. Dimitri reached out to pat their shoulder.

“Sylvain will appear happy upon our return, I’m certain.” Sylvain will appear happy. To actually be pleased with his lover and Dimitri is an entirely different story.

One Byleth picked up on, scratching at their cheek.

“He’s going to murder you, and I’m going to watch.” Hilda tossed her hair back with her words, turning her gaze to Dimitri. Her mouth twisted . “As for you—”

“There’s a nationwide holiday. That’s why we’re delayed.”

Judith was a refreshing sight, stepping over Hilda’s outstretched legs to reach the back of the caravan, sighing as she reclines against the beds set up. It has only been two days of travel, well taken care of by the Almyran diplomats and military who came to greet them at the border, speaking accented Fodlan. They had experienced far worse in war.

But time heals all wounds, and those past two days on the road had been harrowing.

“I can’t believe you speak Almyran. Why didn’t you teach me?” Hilda? Wanting to learn? Byleth coughed something that could be a scoff, earning a pointed glare from her.

“People by the border taught me. And I thought he would have.” Judith’s tone turned pointed as her words drop in volume, glancing about. Hilda harrumphed, crossing her arms, her own words dimming to a low growl.

“Him? As if. I would have crossed a long time ago.”

“Um, who are we talking about?” Dimitri would guess a past lover, by the grimace on Hilda’s face and the glare Judith wears. He wouldn’t have predicted Hilda would have one from across the border, but she was a Goneril. If there was anyone who would be capable of hiding a past Almyran lover, it would be her.

“Business.” Hilda snapped.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Judith sighed in reply, combing her fingers through her hair. She wore it loose for the day, now that they’ve entered Almyra’s rolling meadows. Their first day had been desert grounds, their second beginning to catch the edge of greenery, and now it appears that the stretches of grass and trees merging to mountains in the distance seemed to never end. “I’m surprised you let her come with a vague reason like that. What happened to secrecy?”

“We got caught.” Byleth responded, sour. It earned them a smile from Judith and Hilda alike.

Fodlan’s throat had mandatory border checks, regardless of the travel and their status. It had been that delay, sorting through their clothing, their weapons, checking and rechecking the pin Byleth wore, that had given Judith and Hilda the opportunity to join them. Holst had refused them before either Byleth or Dimitri could, but they pressed on regardless.

It was difficult to refute two angry women Dimitri knew capable of laying a mountain flat to protect their loved ones, even more so when Judith offered a skill set no one else was capable of.

The ability to speak Almyra and…

“Is it true that you know Almyra’s queen?” Judith turned to him at the question, her cheer wiped clean from her face. Something neither angry nor sad passed through, a strange foreign expression, before she clasped her hands together.

“I do.”

“What’s the national holiday for?” Hilda interrupted, turning to the outside. The diplomats transporting them laughed as they drank in a wide circle, singing and dancing. Almyrans, Dimitri has come to realize, cherished every meal. They prayed as easily they laughed, refusing to leave any scraps behind, and they thanked the grounds for hosting them.

It was a refreshing turn from the desk dinners he had begun to take. He’d started to think this trip may have come at a perfect time for him and Fodlan alike.

Judith sighed, meeting his view at their travelers. Her face remained pinched in that off look, folding her hands over her knees. A weary woman tired from more than travel.

When she spoke, her words were gravel and steel.

“They’re announcing the future king.”

-

“You’re kidding me! You must be. You can’t do this!”

The words rung out loud, angry, betrayed. The door to the Archbishop’s private chambers was just slightly ajar, not wide enough for even mice to enter, but it was enough for Sylvain’s scorn to flood the hall. Dimitri stiffened, shooing away the few cleaners who tended to the windows at night.

It would be polite to close the door.

“Sylvain, it will be a short trip.”

“Yeah? Short enough that you’re not letting me come? That short?”

Hurt, from years before Byleth had entered their lives, echoed in Sylvain’s trembling words. A time before Dimitri had understood that he was not the only one to be cut deep by the unspoken rules of Faerghus society. A time before he knew that being kind was not the only kind of burden.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

His fingers stilled on the knob.

“Sylvain.” Footsteps. Dimitri held his breath, but they moved further away. There’s the creak of wood, a soft murmur that he could hardly hear. If he were to peek through the crack, surely he would find an intimate sight unbecoming of an Archbishop.

“By. Why can’t Dimitri stay here? The letter only asked for you.”

Byleth sighed. Dimitri didn’t dare move.

“Peace between nations is a king’s job, not the archbishop. I’m sure our friend was just confused.”

“Then let them stay confused. I could come with you, and they’d be none the wiser.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. Only the king can—”

“Leaving me isn’t fair.”

Creaking, again. The sound of hurried steps against the floor, backwards, forwards, closer to the door and then pacing again.

“Is that it, then? The king? Dimitri? Who you didn’t ask to accompany me to Sreng? You know, when you said you trusted me to take care of matters alone?”

“I did trust you! You did amazing—”

“Did or do?”

“I do. I trust you, you know that, I love you, Sylvain.”

Steps, hurried, angry, stormed towards the door. Dimitri had half a foot back before it swung open and found himself gaping at Sylvain’s misty eyes. Those eyes widened for a moment, temporarily shocked, before twisting closed once more, cruelness swarming in his throat.

“If you trusted me, you’d bring me.”

Quiet, enough so that the words weren’t for Byleth or Dimitri to hear. Sylvain stepped out, perfectly composed from the back besides the barest trembling of his shoulders.

Dimitri turned between the two, Sylvain’s retreating back and Byleth’s still furrowed brows, mouth slightly ajar. 

“Byleth—”

“Dimitri. You should be asleep. We have an early day tomorrow.”

We. Byleth and Dimitri.

He watched Sylvain disappear from sight, bitter words still ringing in his ear.

-

If the rolling hills and budding trees on the journey were any indication, Almyra was far larger than Fodlan had given her credit for. The nation seemed to stretch for endless kilometers from edge to edge, and for much of the journey Dimitri found himself wondering when he would ever see the coast. Though Faerghus was not known for any oceanic views, he had traveled through Duscur with Dedue and seen the ocean. Had met Sylvain near Sreng and watched the waves crash against the shore. Had let the sun and salt wash over him in Derdriu as the sun slipped under the sea.

He had not thought that Almyra’s coast would touch the water.

It was a pleasant surprise when he awoke to the smell of seasalt.

“There’s no way that this is normal, right? Just how many people live here?” Hilda’s sputtering earned her Byleth’s laughter as they joined her in glancing outside the carriage. Judith shook her head, muttering “children” almost fondly as she adjusted her gloves, perched between them and the troops.

“I told you there was a holiday going on,” Judith sighed, peering through the side curtains herself. “But I’ve heard Almyra’s always busy.”

That sounded about right. Though their travels had taken them through winding paths from desert to plains to mountainside roads, Dimitri could not recall a single night they had been without locals. There were always people to speak to, to trade with, and to admire. As the nights continued, fewer and fewer spoke the Fodlan tongue, the Throat left far behind.

Yet The people never grew less kind. It gave Dimitri hope.

“They must be excited to meet their king.” Laughter was the same in every language, and he smiled as they passed another excited family walking along the road. As they traveled closer to the capital, the roads had smoothed out, worn down by carriage wheels, and the skies had also picked up noise with wyvern calls. He stuck his head out more than once to catch the familiar shadows of a flock flying with them, their hides and tails sparkling with what appeared to be gold and bags filled with trading material. Some of the wyvern riders had touched down with them once or twice, speaking to their troops and sharing their tales.

It had been a surprise to hear the heavy tongue of the Sreng peoples at first. Even Hilda and Judith had exchanged absurd glances; only Byleth was unmoved by the exchange, keeping their eyes forward.

“You meet every kind of person as a mercenary,” they had said. Comforting, in a way Dimitri wasn’t sure how to word.

“There’s way too many people. How are we going to get through?” Hilda groaned, flopping against her blankets with a glance upwards at Dimitri. Her doe eyes had only become more potent after marriage with Marianne, Dimitri found , and he crumbled once again under her gaze. One day, he hoped that he will learn to simply look away. Based off Judith and Byleth’s chuckling, he had an inkling he never will figure out how.

“Let me ask.” The curtain lifted with ease as he stepped out of the carriage’s inner room onto the side steps that lead to their driver. The sun hit him immediately, a sharp sting of spices in the air, and the loud chatter of a hundred dialects he couldn’t begin to name. Dimitri breathed it in, glancing at the colorful banners and tents that their carriage passed by. The marketplace here was brighter, and noisier, than the one near Garreg Mach, but he could almost swear he spied Anna’s distinctive hair in the crowd.

“Um, excuse me. Will we take… far? Short? Um, wide?” Days of impromptu Almyran training had left his tongue relatively useless, but their carriage master simply nodded in amusement.

“Long,” the man repeated in Fodlan, and at Dimitri’s nod, spoke a foreign word that ended with a hiss. He tried to replicate it, failing horribly based off the pinched expression on the man’s face. “Not long now. Look.”

The castle was tall enough that Dimitri must crane his neck upward, gasping softly at the sight. Long glass pillars branched out from mountain cliffs, locking with curved hedges that wove through the mountainside. Long splashes of red and green paint faded into gold sculptures and tiles that took up one side of the blue dome formed over the head. There were several towers pointed outward, each decorated with their own figure at the peak. The center dome had a skinny point protruding, and from there hung the Almyran flag.

The glass panels would fit horribly in Fodlan. Dimitri adored it.

“Beautiful,” he said in sloppy Almyran, smiling when the man gave him a thumbs up. The crowds only grew as their carriage took them ever closer, though the people gave them a wide berth upon seeing the gold plated uniforms of the Almyran army. Several glanced at Dimitri’s face, eyes widening and then narrowly immediately after, and he ducked back into the tent.

“Not long now,” he reported, unable to hide his grin at Hilda’s exasperated sigh. “We’re almost at the castle.”

It was even grander in person when they stopped at the gates, staring upwards. Dimitri had always found the Church of Seiros an unreasonable climb, and Faerghus’ own tower entirely unnecessary, but the wide cliffside palace seemed to have them both beat for height. Judith let out a low whistle before her lips pressed flat.

“Pretty,” she murmured, “perfect for a queen.”

“Or a prince,” Hilda joined in darkly. Byleth and Dimitri exchanged a shrug just before their carriage master stepped forward, bowing to the guards. Now that he was close enough to see them in detail, the guards’ wear was remarkably less protective than his own. Rather, their sleeves were loosely draped under a thin layer of chainmail, and they each bore a long sash across their chest, embroidered with what looked like thin flowers and dragon wings.

“The Archbishop of Fodlan has arrived.”

Byleth stepped forward, waving stiffly. The guards took a glance down at their chest—no, at the thunderous pin, before nodding and stepping back, bowing deeply at the waist. Dimitri blinked in surprise, and by the stutter behind him, he wasn’t the only one taken aback.

“Your Honorable,” the guards greeted in near perfect Fodlan, and that choked noise behind him was absolutely Hilda, “welcome to Denpa.”

“Thank you,” Byleth responded in kind, stilted Almyran not quite as polished. The guards straightened, opening the gilded doors behind them, and it was only then that Dimitri noticed the white pilled curtains cascading down, the purple and pink flowers, the impression of a king and queen engraved into the door.

It was hard to take a closer look when a storm of servants, dressed in billowy white frocks and green and gold belts, stepped forward at once. They smiled, men and women of various skin colors and smiles, and together, in formal Fodlan, spoke.

“Hello!”

The following minutes were a flurry of action. Dimitri stammered out a butchered Almyran greeting at least thrice while they were hastened inside with wide grins and laughter; hands took their luggage, feet stomped up stairs, and voices sung something that could be a national song if he knew what it meant. He found a crown of flowers over his head at some point, sputtering as he grasped at it wondering when and how someone found a chance to put it on, until they were pushed to a wine colored door with stained glass wings. He turned, but the people had dispersed as quickly as they had come, and with them, their luggage.

A single woman remained, wearing a long white dress that skirts the floor and a green silk jacket that cut off below her hips. It was shapeless, loose, quite unlike the fitted shirts Hilda and Judith wear even in the growing heat, and she bowed to them deeply.

“Hello, Holy Archbishop and friends. It is my pleasure to provide for you during your stay here in Denpa,” she smiled as she straightened once again, gesturing to the doors. “Please take a few minutes to relax here, your host will send in someone to accompany you shortly.”

“Thank you. Do you have a name?” Dimitri asked. Her eyes widened, a sliver of surprise earnest on her face before it smoothed out again. Her smile stayed resolute.

“It is not of importance to your Grace, nor,” her teeth flashed as she knocked, the red door swinging open behind them, “your Highness.”

The room was surprisingly simple for a palace of such outwardly grandeur. The ceiling was no taller than the classrooms at Garreg Mach, though those ceilings were not of short height either. The room was laid out longer lengthwise, with a long wooden table set in the center, an ivory cloth covering it from edge to edge. Atop it was a spread of breads and cheeses, along with silver platters of fruit and dips. Two skinny mats were set on either side of the table with red cushions spaced out between them. There were twenty in total, ten on either side, and Dimitri wandered his way downwards until he spied the small dried roses at the end of the table.

“They don’t have chairs?” Hilda sighed, though she is the first to recline onto the cushion, glancing over at the pastries. “And no tea, either?”

“Quite a different initial reception to our lovely non-named servants,” Judith muttered, picking up a piece of bread. Though there was plenty of food, not a single plate had been placed, nor knives or forks. There were, however, folded wet towels at each cushion’s seat.

“Perhaps this is customary here.” The cheese was fantastic, and quite different from Fodlan’s variety. Dimitri placed two slices onto a bread, chuckling softly at Hilda’s exaggerated scandalized gasp. There were nuts and dried fruits in them, and though he could not savor the taste, the textures of the crunchy bread and the creamy cheese made him smile.

“That good?” Byleth teased, though they also took a piece. Soon enough they had nearly demolished half the tray set in front of the left half of the table.

“I’m just saying that it’s weird. Shouldn’t the host have come by now? Are we sure this isn’t suspicious?” Hilda frowned as she spoke, nails tapping at the tablecloth.

“It’s absolutely suspicious. I have a knife.” Dimitri and Hilda turned to Judith together, eyebrows raised, as she slipped a dagger from her sleeve. “Stay behind me.”

“I also have a knife. Several, actually.”

“Thanks, professor,” Hilda snorted. She wiped her fingers on the towel, grimacing at the crumbs that failed to unstick.

“Do you think they’ll come? Our host, I mean,” Dimitri added, wiping his own hands now. He had gotten more cheese on himself than he’d like to admit. It was not quite polite for a king.

“They haven’t already,” Judith huffed, sliding her dagger back, “I don’t see why they will.”

The door swung open as though waiting for their very doubt, outdoor light spilling into their room. They straightened at once, and though Dimitri cannot hear the scratch of steel he knew from Byleth’s squared shoulders that his friend had a dagger latched in his hand.

“Friends!”

Fodlan, heavily accented, boomed into the room as a man wandered in, laughing. He wore a deep cut blue shirt, a golden belt, and the same billowing white pants many Almyrans seemed awfully fond of. Behind him were a tall, sleek woman in a tight green gown who seemed both more at home in Fodlan and also too scandalous for any ball, and behind her a pair of what appeared to be sisters wearing matching red skirts, murmuring in low Almyran to each other.

The door creaked as a small group entered the room, long golden veils covering their faces. The first four walked to Dimitri’s side of the table, standing, and they hastened to join them. The latter group, and there are five, now that Dimitri could see, a pillow apart each, of varying heights. The veils were made of thin chiffon and patterned with lace, and though he could see the shadows of nose through it, little else was detectable.

“Sit!” The man who greeted them in Fodlan called out, once in Almyran and once in Fodlan tongue, turning to his companions with a smile. His shoulders were broad, his legs thick with muscle, enough so that he balanced oddly on the square pillows. He laughed nonetheless, tearing a piece of bread from the center.

One of the sisters’ leaned forward, whispering cutting Almyran. Judith stiffened, turning to her with her lips parted, but before any words could pass the door swung shut.

The moment it did, the people across from them all raised a hand, their left one, and as one tugged on their veils . A girl no older than twelve at the most, at the seat closest to Dimitri. A man, no taller than Hilda, with a long skinny scar from ear to ear. A woman besides him who swallowed as she straightened, chin pointed. Another man besides her, wearing a wide golden circlet that was previously obscured by the veil.

There was another besides him. Dimitri narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. A man, looking away, the golden veil’s fold still obscuring the side of their face.

“Shall we eat?” Even in Almyran, the phrase was familiar after days of eating with their troops. Hands reached forward at once, grabbing bread, smearing cheese, fingers snapping at fruits and jams. Finally, the face turned, the veil slipping to their shoulders.

Emerald eyes.

“Claude?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parallel lines move forward forever, never meeting, never intersecting.  
> But,,, sometimes a tricky aunt causes one line to swerve and crash right into another line's path :3c
> 
> Introducing... FAMILY DRAMA and.... MARRIAGE DRAMA?! Rereading and editing this chapter made me wonder if I should have this fic tagged sylvain/byleth since the conflict is touched upon (and they're both major enough in the story for me to tag them lol) 
> 
> I have SO much Almyran worldbuilding I wish IS had given us, but instead we have crumbs and by god is the fandom doing our best to live with those crumbs XD If you're curious about anything in the worldbuilding, feel free to ask! I might skirt around if it's a plot point but usually I love talking about worldbuilding stuff :3
> 
> ~Who are these mysterious new friends? Why does Judith know the head queen? What's going on? ~
> 
> Thank you everyone who has been so kind to kudo, bookmark and comment!!!! I'm so grateful and reading them through this last (hell) week has been,,,, really lovely ;v;

**Author's Note:**

> BA BA BUMMMMMMMMM  
> IT BEGINS!!! DMCL POLITICAL WEDDING DRAMA, SLOW BURN, AND A HECK TON OF RANDOM SEXUAL AND VIOLENT TENSION
> 
> I have many things to say but none of them coherent!!!! This has been many months in the making, and only possible with the wonderful dmcl bb mods and my beautiful fantastic art partners: [ corrin ](https://twitter.com/naturesass/) and [ phan ](https://twitter.com/PhantasAnanas)!
> 
> Judge my life choices on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/shidreamin/) (And check out the dimiclaude zine I'm modding [ here ](https://twitter.com/dmclzine/)!)


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